Night Watchers

All his life, he’s believed in ghosts. Lost spirits, wandering souls, malevolent or otherwise – he doesn't know, doesn't want to. He only believes.
He’s questioned, of course, as the lazy light of some long afternoon draws towards dark. But it’s not his questions he asks. They come from other mouths, other minds, and, for all their reasoned argument, they know no more than he does. As cold logic becomes stubborn refusal (belying the frantic denials beneath), his belief stands, unwavering.
At night he sleeps, and dreams of the dead.
From the window, crypt-cold, the dead watch.
And wait.